The Strength Of Your Heart
by Aevil
Summary: Neville's never belonged in Gryffindor...or has he? Things are bound to happen as Neville discovered who it is exactly that he himself is.
1. Default Chapter

The Strength Of Your Heart.  
  
Disclaimer: I'm not a professional writer so don't expect any miracles. These characters are, of course, J. K. Rowling's, so if you decide it's any good, thank her for creating them.  
  
  
  
Part One: "Why me?"  
  
The darkness of the night was almost unnatural, with a soft wind no more than whispering across the windows, caressing the roughness of the stone castle and stroking the smoothness of the magically strengthened glass. A short, stocky boy lay awake for not the first time, and what would definitely not be the last.  
  
His name was Neville Longbottom, a fifth year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and by no manner was he normal, even in his own, wondrous world that burst with magic at every opportunity. Inside, he was no less than a complicated maze of worries, stresses and long-forgotten fears.  
  
He slept (or rather, tried to sleep) in a dormitory with four other fifth year students: Harry Potter, a hero, unwillingly brought into a world of heroic deeds and painful ordeals; Ron Weasley, Harry's sidekick, faithful and willing to the last; Dean Thomas, an ordinary kid with a talent for artwork; and Seamus Finnigan, an Irish kid, fanatic about Quidditch and devoted to Lavender Brown, another fifth year student.  
  
He sighed and turned over, trying (but failing) to get into a comfortable position. He tossed and turned; fitfully squirming for a while until he was nearly certain he could hear Harry waking up.  
  
Neville got out of bed and headed off down the stairs to the common room, still in his pyjamas. He felt agitated, even antsy somehow, as if something was gnawing away at him, a burning question he needed to answer.  
  
He froze as he heard someone moving around in the common room. There were shuffling feet, the groan of a sofa being sat on and then only the soft breathing of someone waiting. Whoever it was, he needed to know what they were doing, desperately.  
  
If Neville had been in his first year, he would have turned and fled back to his dormitory at the sound of another person. But ever since the fourth year, when Harry had once again come face to face with the Dark Lord and escaped with his life still intact, he had developed an independent streak. He now withheld very few of his original fears.  
  
He cleared his throat and continued descending the circular staircase, taking slow, yet heavier than usual steps. He didn't hear any movement from below.  
  
As he entered the common room, expecting darkness only lit by the smouldering embers of a dying fire, he was surprised to find a blazing fire in the fireplace and candles lit on every wall. But the biggest surprise came in the form of…  
  
"Professor Dumbledore?" he muttered questioningly, tilting his head slightly to one side.  
  
Professor Dumbledore looked up from unsticking three sherbet lemons and grinned knowledgably at him.  
  
"I was expecting you rather earlier than this, but you took your dear time thundering down that staircase like a herd of Trufflewumps, didn't you?" he inquired grinning ever more widely the whole time. "Ah! Sherbet lemon, Neville?"  
  
He proffered a long-fingered, bony hand with a sherbet lemon in it, but Neville shook his head slightly, bewildered.  
  
"Oh, I see you're wondering why I'm here?" he inquired gently, his grin ceasing to spread but still remaining.  
  
"Well, to tell the truth, yes. But… Professor, how did you know I was going to be here?"  
  
Professor Dumbledore raised his eyebrows and explained in a rather vague manner.  
  
"I thought you of all people would have known that some things are just not meant to be questioned. No, it's best if you don't know how, but why. So I shall tell you all you need to know; no less, no more."  
  
He paused for a moment, and when Neville still refrained from saying anything, he simply stated, "Now I am not obliged to answer questions before they are asked, so feel free to speak your mind."  
  
"Professor, you speak like there's something that I want to ask you. I'm sure that there is, but I just can't think of it. I need a clue," he prompted, hoping that Dumbledore would at least prod him in the right direction.  
  
"Neville, Neville, Neville. Look at your surroundings: where are you? Is this where you have always meant to be, or is there something else, something bigger, better and more…powerful in your own eye's perception? When the time comes, you will find me, and with me you will find the answer you seek. Until then, Neville, I shall leave you."  
  
And with a swish of his cloak, he disappeared, leaving a short, plump, and very confused student standing alone in the semi-darkness.  
  
* * *  
  
Having never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, it took Neville a few days to realise that Professor Dumbledore hadn't Disapparated from the Gryffindor common room that night. In the middle of Potions, while making a rather complicated Ingenuity solution, he suddenly let out a sharp 'what?' of confusion, catching the Potion Master's attention.  
  
"What now, Longbottom? Are you still stumped as to which way to set up your cauldron, or did you realise that your disgusting creature of a toad is swimming in your solution?"  
  
Fishing Trevor out of the brilliant magenta potion, Neville spoke softly, not daring to look Professor Snape in the eyes.  
  
"Neither, Professor. I was only thinking about something from a while ago. Sorry."  
  
"You are not sorry," he stated cruelly, looking into Neville's eyes, which had been downcast seconds earlier. " I can see it in your eyes. Ten points from Gryffindor and detention for a wandering mind and disrupting the class."  
  
From the corner of his eye, Neville could see Ron, and he could definitely hear what he was saying, which was along the lines of, "Jeez, he must have something really big stuck up his…Ow Hermione! What was that for?"  
  
Neville could see the haughty look Hermione was getting and knew that trouble was stirring. Ron had just come from Divination, and Hermione from Arithmancy. The two never agreed on what was the best class, and nearly always ended up in a shouting match in the centre of the Gryffindor common room.  
  
Neville had never mentioned to anyone his gift at Divination, which had been increasing over the last year. They had been going over palmistry, and by studying Seamus' hand intently, and slowly stroking it, he had noticed some small changes in the lines. His life-line had been lengthening, whereas his love-line had been shortening. The only line that had not changed was his luck, which still remained extremely short, and several broken promises had appeared and disappeared over the last two weeks.  
  
He suspected some of this had to do with his promises to Lavender Brown about meeting alone in Hogsmeade, and then showing up with Dean, because Parvati had cancelled her date with him, but he was stumped as to what was lengthening his life-line. Previously, his life-line had indicated he only had six months to live, where-as now; he had a good ten years at least.  
  
He knew his gift was limited, as Professor Trelawney had failed to pick up his aura, but he was sure it was there. Wavering and indistinct as it may be, it had stood by him for more than a small while.  
  
Neville sighed irritably and got back to making his potion. Steam hissed, potions bubbled and a domineering silhouette prowled hungrily for trouble. And, unseen, a pair of eyes stared, blinked and disappeared.  
  
* * *  
  
Professor Dumbledore sat in his office, staring at a small, metallic object on his desk. His eyes were glazed, his breath coming slowly, irregularly and shallowly when suddenly he stopped. He slumped forwards onto the desk, his arm limply falling to one side and remained that way for several minutes until his body jerked wildly.  
  
Dumbledore awoke and sat up abruptly, rubbing his arm.  
  
"Astro-projecting," he said and sighed. "All this silly business of ripping your life-essence out of you and sending it somewhere. It's just not right. Neville may be needing a better way in the near future."  
  
He grabbed a quill and swiftly wrote in a discreet handwriting a letter to Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. When he had finished, he blew on the parchment, rolled it up and tied it with a Hogwarts scroll-ribbon.  
  
"Zetis, take care. Mexico will have tough weather at this time of the year, and it is vitally important you get this to Fudge," he said, placing the parchment in the owl's beak. "Good luck."  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter One: Part 2  
  
A/N: I'm not particularly proud of this part. I don't think it's written all that well, but I'm not embarrassed by it, either. I have mixed feelings. And I know that when I finish re-writing 'C'est Bleue et Rose', most of the argument between Ron and Hermione will be repeated, but I decided to write it here in any case. I've had calls for this next part, so here it is! Hope you enjoy! And don't forget to review, even if you have for part one already.  
  
  
  
Neville jogged quickly to his detention in the hospital wing, hoping against hope he wasn't assigned to the bedpans yet again. Snape had a knack for finding just the right time to give him a detention and have him cleaning out the vile things.  
  
As he pushed open the door, a rather grumpy Madam Pomfrey greeted him with, "You, bed-pans. Now. Go. And none of that!" she scolded as Neville sighed.  
  
"Yes Miss," he sighed again without even realising it. Why was Madam Pomfrey in such a bad mood?  
  
Then he spotted Malfoy sulking in a corner and realised why. His hair was a violent shade of green, and he was sipping at a dull pink potion. As he took each sip, his hair faded the tiniest of bits.  
  
The hair was the side effect of a prank pulled by Harry and Ron that had resulted in detentions and quite a few less points for Gryffindor earlier that morning. Professor Snape had also ended up with a head of green hair, but had obviously opted to take the potion in his chambers.  
  
Malfoy finished his potion and left, scowling bitterly.  
  
As Neville was summoning the first armful of bedpans, he heard three very familiar voices drawing nearer outside the hospital wing door. Madam Pomfrey half growled/half sighed and opened the door to reveal Harry, Ron and Hermione standing there, Ron and Hermione bickering violently.  
  
Hermione had apparently been attacked by Ron and ended up with a head of blue and pink hair, which had failed to go back to its original state.  
  
"Harry, tell her she's being totally unreasonable. I'm sure it'll come out sooner or later," Ron pleaded.  
  
"Er," Harry stammered, looking from side to side from Ron to Hermione, then at Neville with a desperate, distraught sort of look.  
  
"Harry, tell Ron he's being a git. I know it will come out, but he should apologise for doing it in the first place. Totally reasonable," Hermione said haughtily, folding her arms and giving Ron an icy look.  
  
"Um…I really don't think…" Harry muttered, looking at neither Ron nor Hermione, just the thin line of sight he had through his eyelids, which were pushed rather close together due to the half-cringe he was pulling.  
  
"Don't think what, Harry? Don't think that Hermione's being fair? Ha! See Hermione? Even Harry agrees with me!" Ron shouted, pointing his finger at Hermione and not allowing Harry time to answer his question.  
  
"You really are daft, aren't you Ronald Arthur? Let Harry speak, I'm sure he was about to agree with me," Hermione retorted, glaring at Ron and then turning to Harry expectantly, waiting for an answer.  
  
"Don't you ever call me that again," Ron snarled dangerously at Hermione, his eyes narrowed to slits. Her eyes widened for a moment, then they too joined the icy temperature that was smothering that half of the room.  
  
"Look, you prat, will you listen? I don't care about whether or not the colour comes out, but just apologise, will you?"  
  
"You bloody bookworm, I'm not bloody apologising!"  
  
He said this with such force, Neville wondered wether Madam Pomfrey, from the other room, would be able to hear and come out here to break it up.  
  
"Oh, and I love you too!" Hermione retorted, sarcasm oozing off her voice and dripping onto the floor.  
  
Ron didn't notice the sarcasm, and was silent for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face.  
  
"Look, will the two of you just… shut… up?" Harry sighed and rolled his eyes in an annoyed fashion. "You are really getting on my nerves! Stop it."  
  
Hermione looked completely shocked, and when she finally spoke up, it was in a quiet, tentative voice.  
  
"Harry, I'm sorry," she began. "It's hard on you, I know, and I am trying, but he just makes me so mad…"  
  
"Oh I make you mad, do I???" Ron roared, glaring accusingly at Hermione, whose eyes flashed dangerously in his direction. "Well think about this, will you? Every time, every SINGLE time I want to do something, I want to play chess, go for a walk, practise Quidditch…EAT A SUGAR QUILL FOR GOD'S SAKE, you always have a reason not to!"  
  
He put on a high whiny voice that Neville supposed was meant to be Hermione nagging him.  
  
"Too cold for Quidditch, you'll get sick. Don't play chess; we've got to study. You're not going for a walk now are you? In this heat? Sugar quills? In class? You'll get caught, and they're bad for your teeth!"  
  
Neville saw Hermione's eyes water and she took off out the Hospital wing door, school robes streaming behind her, midnight black against the topaz- blue of the wall.  
  
"That was a bit harsh, you know."  
  
"Shut up, Harry. You like her or something?" Ron shot at Harry, looking extremely putout.  
  
"Of course! We've been snogging behind the broomshed for weeks!"  
  
At the horrified look on the freckled face before him, Harry rolled his eyes.  
  
"Jeez, do you I actually would? That's like you and Ginny, the way we think of each other. Now go apologise, you great prat," he ordered, raising his eyebrows meaningfully and punching Ron on the arm. "I'll clean the bedpans, Ronald."  
  
"Don't call me that," Ron warned, already walking out the door.  
  
Harry rolled his eyes meaningfully at Neville and summoned a few bedpans.  
  
"Hey Harry," Neville asked, curiosity getting the better of him finally, despite having been held at bay for a few days. "You know how Dumbledore's always been brilliantly mad, right? And whatever he says to you, there's a deeper meaning?"  
  
Harry nodded as he viciously attacked a bedpan, scrubbing like it was going out of fashion.  
  
"Well, what would he mean if he asked if there was somewhere I'd belong better? More…powerful, or something, 'in my own eye's perception'."  
  
"Yeah, I'll tell you what that means," Harry said, looking up and panting slightly. "He's finally done it. Gone completely mad."  
  
"Great lot of help you are!"  
  
Neville grabbed another bedpan, and slowly began scrubbing. Of course, scrubbing out bedpans wouldn't be a proper detention if you could use magic, so there was no magic to be used in the cleaning process.  
  
They were both silent for a moment, cleaning; Harry viciously and Neville cautiously, before Neville couldn't take it anymore. But, surprisingly, Harry was first to break the silence.  
  
"Was that Malfoy we passed in the corridor?"  
  
Yeah," Neville replied, not looking up. "Madam Pomfrey gave him a potion to fix his hair up."  
  
Harry grinned a bit crookedly, and said, "Do you think he's learnt to leave Gryffindor's alone yet? I mean, he's been caught in a fistfight, slapped, turned into a ferret and now had his hair turned green. You'd think he'd learn."  
  
"I don't think he has."  
  
Harry nodded thoughtfully.  
  
"I suppose," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Remember in first year, when you got in that fist fight with Crabbe and Goyle?"  
  
"Mm-hmm," Neville said, scrubbing harder. He could still feel the pain of Goyles knuckle in his eye socket, still hear the pounding in his ears as blood rushed around his body, still see the identical expressions of glee imprinted on both Crabbe and Goyles faces. He shuddered and shrugged the memory off his shoulders.  
  
"Why was that? I mean, Ron got into the fight with Malfoy, and then you leapt over the back of the seat. What made you do that?" Harry asked, nudging Neville towards the answer to his earlier question.  
  
"I think it was because…" he began, and then sped up for the ending. "Malfoy said I wasn't brave enough to be in Gryffindor! That's it!"  
  
Harry gave him a small smile, raised his eyebrows and nodded.  
  
"But doesn't everyone think that they're not brave enough? I mean, you do, don't you?" Neville inquired.  
  
"Well, yeah, but you have to realise that deep down, everyone knows where they belong. It comes naturally, and once you find it, it never goes away. I've come face-to-face with one of the most evil wizards of all time four times so far. Of course I'm going to feel like I have some sort of right to be in Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat picks each person for that. Deep down, you know where you belong."  
  
Or do I? Neville viciously slapped the thought away, but it was too late. It was imprinted in his mind, buzzing away annoyingly.  
  
"But if everyone has these doubts," Neville asked. "Why pick me? He could have chosen any Gryffindor, any Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or even a Slytherin. Why me???"  
  
1 To be continued… 


	2. Of Fire and Ice

Chapter Two: Of Fire and Ice.  
  
A/N: This chapter is especially long, but I quite like the way it is turning out. It took me along for the ride, as I hope it takes you. And please review! (I'm sorry, I tried but really couldn't find a way for that to not rhyme)  
  
The moon hung silently in the starry sky, a silver orb glinting gracefully against midnight black. The single shaft of moonlight it cast into the fifth-year boys' dormitory fell straight onto Neville's worried, and fully awake, face, illuminating his tired, brown eyes.  
  
Pain was evident on the poor child's face, but it was more than physical pain. It was emotional, spiritual even, penetrating deeper into his soul than a blade ever could. But the cause for the pain was one that was not to be known at this time or place.  
  
For with each day, and with each night, a revelation passes. Things happen, people learn, and destruction is eminent. The power within means more to each person than words or physical strength ever could, and when the source of that power is gone, an emptiness remains.  
  
And that emptiness is exactly what Neville was experiencing at that moment in time.  
  
* * *  
  
"Now class, today we will be revising our viewing of the orb. I noticed in our earlier covering of the subject that some of the more gifted students," Professor Trelawney said, and beamed (as much as a glittering grasshopper imitation can beam) down at Parvati and Lavender, "were rather adept at this particular method. But, for the sake of those who are not quite as gifted," she paused to serve a sniggering Harry and Ron an unidentifiable look, "I shall be reviewing the basics."  
  
Neville, at the same table as Harry, Ron, Dean and Seamus (the Divination tower had been reorganised due to Ron's particular encounter with a cup of tea-leaves) sighed dejectedly. Ron, however, was not taking this as lightly.  
  
"Not quite as gifted," he said in a shrill voice, which, oddly enough, did sound like Professor Trelawney. "What does she think we are? Re-habs? Bloody hell, I'm not slow!"  
  
"Could've fooled me," muttered Harry in a voice low enough that the teacher couldn't hear, but loud enough to bring chuckles from Dean and Seamus.  
  
"Shutup, Harry."  
  
Neville put his head down on the desk in front of him. It was always like this, Harry and Ron, Dean and Seamus. Four of them, one of him. He was always there but not part of the conversation.  
  
Professor Trelawney was over at Parvati and Lavender's table, presenting them each with a glowing crystal ball. The shimmering light emanated across the table, illuminating Lavender's glowing face.  
  
Professor Trelawney made her way across the room to Neville's table, and gave him an orb to share with Dean and Seamus, ignoring the tears of mirth that were pouring out of Harry's eyes as he struggled to breathe through his gales of laughter. She then took her place in front of the class again.  
  
"Has everyone placed their orbs in the traditional 'Seeing' position? Good, now, get your partner to place their hand on the orb, close your eyes, breathe deeply…"  
  
Her voice droned on endlessly, monotonous, lazily even, and Neville drew in the scented air deeply as Seamus placed his hand on the orb, filling his lungs with the stiflingly warm gas. He closed his eyes, still breathing in a rhythmic pattern, and then opened them, glazed and glossy, to peer into what had moments before been a glowing, misty crystal ball.  
  
The darkness swirled, moving in circular based patterns inside the spherical structure. It drew him in, further, further, until his eyes were a mere centimetre away from the edge. Yet there was no edge. The blackness was contained by nothing, and it seeped outwards, filling the room, enveloping everyone.  
  
The others, however, did not seem to notice the blackness swallowing them, and Neville turned back to the orb, eyes clear once more and sharply focused.  
  
In a blinding flash of scarlet a bird-shaped flame exploded from right in front of him. It swooped upwards, spiralling, swirling; a trail of blazing flames seared across the midnight-black that was all Neville could see. A second bird, blue this time, soared upwards out of nowhere, tracing its own blazing trail in the pitch-black that surrounded him, and continued swooping around the room, until a third bird, white-hot, appeared.  
  
This bird, rather than flying upwards and forming a spectacular pattern on the inky blackness, as the other two birds were doing now; slowly spread it's burning wings, carefully and deliberately sweeping them towards Neville's face. Pain seared through him; agonising, gut-wrenching pain, and he put a hand to his face.  
  
He pulled it back in shock, and studied it for a moment. This wasn't his hand, nor was this his face. The bird shrieked and swooped upward, joining in the spectacular display as if it had always been, the three flames never crossing, but making one delicate pattern in the sky, etched for a moment before disappearing forever into the inky blackness.  
  
The birds continued to spiral endlessly around, delicate yet powerful, beautiful yet horrible, creating an ancient pattern that has been forgotten for centuries, lost forever into the void that is the past. The flames blazed, fiery and strong, but seemed to be distancing. The birds faded, calling to each other in beautiful and frightening shrieks, until there was nothing but darkness.  
  
Just as the dark had crept outwards, light began to seep from that spot on the table, inching in tendrils towards him, swirling like mist. As the light spread, shapes appeared. Neville saw a face, leering, smirking satisfactorily, he felt cold, curved stone behind his back, heard the chants of many monotonous voices droning in the distance, and looked fearfully around him.  
  
It was outdoors, a temple of some sort, made of a sandy-coloured stone, reaching for the heavens. The sun was beating down; he felt it on his chest. But was this chest his? It was muscular, powerful, and his arms were full of strength. But he could feel his face without touching it…this was his body.  
  
The face drew closer to him, looked him in the eye, and then upwards at the sun. He spoke in a different language, but from what Neville could gather from his tone, this was a serious religious ceremony. That involved blood. And lots of it.  
  
The man turned back, and reached into his Mexican-style robes, drawing out a large, glass dagger. It sparkled, glinting blindingly in the sun for a moment before the man (who Neville supposed was a priest) brought it sweeping down to rest in his chest.  
  
Pain seared through him, strong and biting, worse than when the bird's wings had passed over him, worse than when he had broken his wrist. He saw spots in the air in front of him, he shook his head violently, struggling, and felt the blade slide down his chest…no, through his chest.  
  
A hand reached inside him, he felt it pushing aside his vital organs, before grabbing his heart and, with a wrench, pulling it from his body.  
  
Neville saw, and felt, no more.  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter Two, part two.  
  
A/N: No, Neville is not dead J but I scared you, didn't I? Well, I guess I probably didn't, but hey, you can imagine. Ooh, long bit! ;^)  
  
I'm not sure if I got Neville right in this next bit, so please review and tell me what I should do.  
  
Neville awoke to the sound of stomping feet and the rustling of sheets. He couldn't open his eyes, it was as if they were glued shut, but from the smell of the air he could tell he was in the hospital wing. The strangely biting feel of the cool, dry air, the indescribably clean smell; it was all too familiar.  
  
He felt cramped in his legs and stretched slightly to loosen them up a bit. Pain shot through him, and he wrenched his eyes open in shock, crying out suddenly. He tried to sit up but found that only the slightest movement to his torso would send spasms of pain up his spine and into his brain. He shuddered violently and flopped back onto the relatively hard mattress, wondering what was going on.  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked up quickly from the pile of sheets she was unfolding and placing on the beds and strode quickly over, looking extremely worried. She placed a cool, shaking hand on his forehead, looking sadly into his scared eyes.  
  
"Shh," she said softly, more caring than was usual for the school nurse. "I don't know what you've done to yourself this time, but it's serious. If you need to move, you'll call me. You could kill yourself otherwise, and no one wants that. Drink this."  
  
She handed him a small goblet of a fiery-white potion, and helped him to swallow it while lying down, an extremely difficult procedure. All the while she was giving him a tragic look, as if there was something she had to tell him but didn't have the heart to break it to him herself.  
  
"What is it?" Neville asked desperately, catching on to the look. "I'm not going to die, am I?"  
  
She gave him that tragic look again, he saw the pain in her eyes as she paused a moment before saying, "I really don't know."  
  
Neville's eyes went wide with shock and he let out a strangled sort of sob. His whole life flashed before him; breaking his wrist during his first ever flying lesson, locked out of the common room, clambering over the Quidditch stand seats to join in the scuffle between Ron and Draco, being scorned for weeks for letting Sirius Black get the password to the common room in third year…  
  
It was all too much. He broke down.  
  
* * *  
  
Days passed and Neville spent the whole time in his bed, thinking of what would be his final moment, his final words. He had an idea of what he wanted to be remembered for saying at the last; he just hoped he didn't die in his sleep, remembered always as the boy who looked into a crystal ball and sent himself to the hospital wing, dying doing what he did best…nothing.  
  
All day, and all night, he would lie there, refusing to eat, his condition steadily growing worse. Madam Pomfrey had taken to going misty-eyed whenever she came into the room and saw him there, having lost all will to live.  
  
The room had never been a cheerful place, but somehow Madam Pomfrey had done an exceptionally good job of keeping the place from becoming a morbid area of the castle before then. But as Neville sank deeper and deeper into his will to die, the place grew darker, and every student feared to enter upon the room.  
  
Every sick child would dig their heels in and fight to the bitter end that there was no need to head up to the hospital wing, but, while being sympathetic of their cause, the prefects had taken it upon themselves to watch the younger students' health and chase them up to the wing.  
  
But soon Professor Dumbledore decided that enough was enough. This child was only injuring himself more, and affecting everyone else at the same time. It was time to bring in Nan.  
  
* * *  
  
Neville watched as Madam Pomfrey bustled out of the room, Ginny Weasley following behind her, who was sniffling slightly from a runny nose and giving Neville a sympathetic, caring look. He looked away, out the window at the snow slowly drifting down, speckling the ice-blue sky with sparkling gems of ice.  
  
A freezing gust of wind carried a flurry of snow inside the hospital wing as a steely-grey owl swept in the window, feathers ruffling slightly and covered in snow. It swooped around the room once, dropping more snow, and rested on Neville's bed, next to his weak, thinning arm, offering the letter attached to its leg.  
  
Neville gritted his teeth and hastily untied the note, sparks of pain jolting up his spine with each slight movement. He finished with the knot and flopped back down on the bed, panting and twitching slightly in his arms.  
  
Madam Pomfrey came back out of the room, although Ginny did not, obviously wanting to stay until she stopped steaming at the ears. She glanced at Neville, who was sweaty and shaking, looked at the letter in his hand and bustled over, flapping her arms at the owl.  
  
"Shoo!" she growled at it, giving it an extra vicious flap of her arm. "Get out of here!"  
  
The owl did no such thing. She grabbed the letter from Neville's weak hand and gave him a stare, the kind of stare that looks into your eyes and tells you you've done something wrong, terribly wrong, and you should be punished.  
  
Neville tore his eyes away from hers, guilt riding through his veins, an icy torrent roaring along his body. He shouldn't have touched the letter. He'd done himself damage. A few less minutes to live…  
  
"You're having visitors this afternoon, Mr Longbottom. Here," she said, handing him the parchment. "You read it."  
  
He reached up and quickly grabbed it, sparking pain up his arm and through to his chest, then up towards his brain, joltingly unwelcome. He painfully unfolded the parchment, flinching with each tiny movement.  
  
Dear Mr Longbottom,  
  
It is with a sense of happiness I announce that, despite your condition, your guardian will be coming to visit you later in the day. I will be in just before then to have a talk (a private talk) and would very much appreciate you to be ready.  
  
There are some very important issues we need to discuss concerning your condition, and they are for your ears and your ears alone. I hope you realise that this will take some getting used to, but things are going to change. Drastically. Please try to bear with me on this.  
  
Your Headmaster,  
  
Prof. Dumbledore.  
  
"Oh no," he muttered, truly meaning it in a powerful way. "Not Nan."  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked at him in a quizzical manner and left, her brow furrowed slightly as she muttered to herself about private conversations with people who couldn't even move. Neville stroked the owl softly on the head, glad of its company, but soon the owl swept it's wings and swooped out of the window, just as a gust of wind blew in some more snow.  
  
The icy flakes of frozen water blew around the room, swirling in all too familiar patterns, the dazzlingly white snow replicating the many-coloured flames which represent past, present and future.  
  
Neville did not notice the repetition of his Divination encounter; he was fast asleep. A shallow sleep; too shallow for dreams, too shallow to be of any use to resting his body. But just deep enough to make him unaware of the warning of his pending future breezing around the room in ever-moving currents.  
  
* * *  
  
As Zetis swept through Professor Dumbledore's window, bringing more snow in with her, he glanced up from the letter she had brought him earlier that day. The steely-grey feathers of her wings brushed Professor Dumbledore's cheek as she came to rest on his shoulder.  
  
He absent-mindedly reached up a hand to pat her, concentrating hard on what he was to say to Neville. The whole thing was mess. A terrible mess, one that would take years to clean up completely. But there was a shortcut. It was dangerous, so risky he would never have considered it, but for months the stars and weather had been telling him to. The pin-points of light in the night-time sky telling a story of foreboding danger, warning of the only possible solution, each breath of wind or stutter of rain whispering a message in his ear.  
  
This Divination encounter was so rare, so uncommon, so often fatal, that Dumbledore was surprised to find the boy still alive. If Neville had made it so far without food and only small amounts of water, he could fully recover. But he didn't want to, and that was one major problem. It takes will to make it through this, so much power from within that it often leaves the survivors damaged on the inside. Spiritually damaged, ruined forever by the exertion of mixing past, present and future.  
  
But it had to be done. And it would, so that life could go on, and the shortcut taken.  
  
* * *  
  
Neville knew he was in for it the moment he opened his eyes. Instantly. There was no point in-between waking up and getting fluttery in the stomach, awfully fluttery, so bad he was on the verge of throwing up. But of course he couldn't because throwing up would mean moving about. It wasn't worth the pain.  
  
His Nan was coming. This was not a desirable situation to be in, considering the fact that his vicious grandparent would do anything to keep him alive in case his parents recovered. If she had to break both of his legs to save him, she would. It was a matter of pride, a matter of love. Not care, it was deeper than that. These things run in veins, powerfully strong even after being removed from one realm to another.  
  
So as he opened his eyes, flinching slightly from the bright sunlight spilling onto his face, Neville shivered violently and sat up, ignoring the warning signs of pain in his chest. He sighed deeply, shakily, and sat up even more, desperately trying not to let out sharp sounds of pain, so as not to alert Madam Pomfrey to the fact that he was disobeying her. He was coming to terms with the agony, he didn't know why, but somehow it had something to do with the dream he had just had.  
  
Three birds of flame, each a differing colour, had swept around a room that had been in complete and utter darkness. They had etched a pattern in his mind, a pattern that was dancing just out of reach of his brain; metaphorically waggling it's tongue at him. But although he couldn't remember the pattern, he could remember the feeling it had brought upon him. Fear, and sympathy. Raw, cold, biting. Two powerful emotions mixed together in a shockingly unforgiving memory.  
  
That pattern was important somehow; it was as if it could mean life or death for him. But he couldn't remember the exact details. A swirl here, a slight thickening of a line there, but that was all. No connection of the two.  
  
Shoving these thoughts to the back of his head, he thought about trying some magic after so long. But where was his wand?  
  
He frantically searched the hospital wing, eyes speedily scanning the perimeter of the room, and spotted it. It was laying on top of a pile of his things a few metres away. Three, maybe four steps. Three or four very slow, very painful steps away.  
  
But he wanted that wand now more than ever because of its tantalising distance. So close, so very close, and yet so very far. Resolutely, Neville swung his legs around and over the edge of the bed.  
  
Big mistake. As soon as he moved his stiff, neglected leg muscles, they spontaneously cramped. This was worse than not being able to move for pain, he was paralysed. Clenching his teeth in pain from the cramps, he viciously attempted to move.  
  
Nothing happened. It was as if the nerve-endings in his legs were so pre- occupied with sending pain up his spine that there was no room to react and tell his muscles to move. He reached down and angrily rubbed one leg, pushing here and there, attempting to gain anything but pain by moving.  
  
His leg was still clenched tight, but he slowly and painfully stretched it out, wincing the whole time. He began work on his other leg, and realised with a start that the other was starting to cramp up again. He kept it moving slowly until he was able to move his other leg.  
  
It was agony, he winced and cringed all through the process, but somehow the pain made it all the more worth it. As if this was an obstacle he had to overcome before he could do anything else; wether that be casting a spell with his wand, or going back to sleep. It was a compelling urge, one that he found he just couldn't resist.  
  
Neville took a deep breath and stood up. His legs immediately crumpled under him and he fell with a crash to the floor. A very heavy, very loud crash, one that brought Madam Pomfrey from the other room.  
  
She gasped and put a hand to her mouth when she saw Neville on the floor, trying to get up, whimpering slightly with pain. He looked up and saw tears in her eyes as she ran over to help him.  
  
"Oh you foolish, foolish boy!" she said through shallow, irregular breaths. "What do you think you're doing? You could have killed yourself!"  
  
Neville said nothing, and flopped back down on the bed, knowing that he couldn't do anything else that day. The urge to get his wand was gone now, as suddenly as it had come. Every muscle in his body was on fire, blazing with a thousand flames, searing with heat and pain.  
  
"Shh," Madam Pomfrey whispered, calming down a bit. "Don't you ever do that again, you hear?"  
  
She wiped a tear from her cheek, and used her other hand to softly stroke his cheek and test his temperature via his forehead. She looked alarmed and drew back her hand, looking at it in amazement.  
  
"How do you feel?" she asked urgently, a confused look on her face.  
  
"Hot," Neville muttered, closing his eyes from the heat. It was as if the sheets surrounding him were thick woolen blankets, as if the falling snow outside was a rain of fire. But, for some reason, he shivered violently.  
  
"Hot? But you're definitely less than thirty degrees!"  
  
"That's nice," he muttered absently, rolling over to one side and casting away the sheets. So hot, he thought. So very hot.  
  
* * *  
  
As quickly as the fever had come, it passed. It was less than half an hour before Neville, previously shivering violently and simultaneously complaining about the heat, was lying sore, tired, but calm and near normal, in-between the crisp, lemon-smelling sheets of his hospital-wing bed.  
  
As each minute had passed, Neville's body temperature had dropped another half a degree Celsius, eventually reaching about fourteen degrees. His whole body was like a drink from the fridge on a hot day, with the cold beads of sweat replicating the condensation on a cup.  
  
He had been shaking uncontrollably the whole time, but thwarted every attempt of Madam Pomfrey's to cover him with a blanket by a vicious swipe of his arm. He had mumbled the whole time, about fire, darkness, and a bird. He, at one time, had even magically opened a window in his subconscious. The window had opened with a bang, letting a flurry of snow inside, which swirled around the room before falling to the floor, drops of icy-cold water.  
  
Madam Pomfrey pondered this as she waited at the hospital wing door for Dumbledore. She had never encountered such a case, and hoped she never would again. It had drained her just to be around the boy, he had seemed to suck the energy out of her.  
  
But what could be causing this? It was as if he was living two lives at once, as if his past, present and future selves were passing through him, colliding violently. But she had never heard of such a thing, it was impossible. How could the three of his selves, which exist only to the present person, be colliding?  
  
These questions and many more raced around her head, and when she finally heard a knock on the doors, she took a deep, but somewhat not calming, breath and pulled them open to reveal a rather serious-looking Professor Dumbledore.  
  
"Professor," she greeted him, throwing the 'symptoms-I've-never-heard-of' look in his face.  
  
"Yes, Poppy, I do believe that we are in need of a conversation in private. May we?" He gestured towards the back room.  
  
"Of course," she muttered, leading the way. And as she looked back into the room, she saw a blood-red aura surrounding Neville's bed.  
  
To be continued… 


	3. chapter three and four

Chapter Two: Of Fire and Ice.  
  
A/N: This chapter is especially long, but I quite like the way it is turning out. It took me along for the ride, as I hope it takes you. And please review! (I'm sorry, I tried but really couldn't find a way for that to not rhyme)  
  
The moon hung silently in the starry sky, a silver orb glinting gracefully against midnight black. The single shaft of moonlight it cast into the fifth-year boys' dormitory fell straight onto Neville's worried, and fully awake, face, illuminating his tired, brown eyes.  
  
Pain was evident on the poor child's face, but it was more than physical pain. It was emotional, spiritual even, penetrating deeper into his soul than a blade ever could. But the cause for the pain was one that was not to be known at this time or place.  
  
For with each day, and with each night, a revelation passes. Things happen, people learn, and destruction is eminent. The power within means more to each person than words or physical strength ever could, and when the source of that power is gone, an emptiness remains.  
  
And that emptiness is exactly what Neville was experiencing at that moment in time.  
  
* * *  
  
"Now class, today we will be revising our viewing of the orb. I noticed in our earlier covering of the subject that some of the more gifted students," Professor Trelawney said, and beamed (as much as a glittering grasshopper imitation can beam) down at Parvati and Lavender, "were rather adept at this particular method. But, for the sake of those who are not quite as gifted," she paused to serve a sniggering Harry and Ron an unidentifiable look, "I shall be reviewing the basics."  
  
Neville, at the same table as Harry, Ron, Dean and Seamus (the Divination tower had been reorganised due to Ron's particular encounter with a cup of tea-leaves) sighed dejectedly. Ron, however, was not taking this as lightly.  
  
"Not quite as gifted," he said in a shrill voice, which, oddly enough, did sound like Professor Trelawney. "What does she think we are? Re-habs? Bloody hell, I'm not slow!"  
  
"Could've fooled me," muttered Harry in a voice low enough that the teacher couldn't hear, but loud enough to bring chuckles from Dean and Seamus.  
  
"Shutup, Harry."  
  
Neville put his head down on the desk in front of him. It was always like this, Harry and Ron, Dean and Seamus. Four of them, one of him. He was always there but not part of the conversation.  
  
Professor Trelawney was over at Parvati and Lavender's table, presenting them each with a glowing crystal ball. The shimmering light emanated across the table, illuminating Lavender's glowing face.  
  
Professor Trelawney made her way across the room to Neville's table, and gave him an orb to share with Dean and Seamus, ignoring the tears of mirth that were pouring out of Harry's eyes as he struggled to breathe through his gales of laughter. She then took her place in front of the class again.  
  
"Has everyone placed their orbs in the traditional 'Seeing' position? Good, now, get your partner to place their hand on the orb, close your eyes, breathe deeply…"  
  
Her voice droned on endlessly, monotonous, lazily even, and Neville drew in the scented air deeply as Seamus placed his hand on the orb, filling his lungs with the stiflingly warm gas. He closed his eyes, still breathing in a rhythmic pattern, and then opened them, glazed and glossy, to peer into what had moments before been a glowing, misty crystal ball.  
  
The darkness swirled, moving in circular based patterns inside the spherical structure. It drew him in, further, further, until his eyes were a mere centimetre away from the edge. Yet there was no edge. The blackness was contained by nothing, and it seeped outwards, filling the room, enveloping everyone.  
  
The others, however, did not seem to notice the blackness swallowing them, and Neville turned back to the orb, eyes clear once more and sharply focused.  
  
In a blinding flash of scarlet a bird-shaped flame exploded from right in front of him. It swooped upwards, spiralling, swirling; a trail of blazing flames seared across the midnight-black that was all Neville could see. A second bird, blue this time, soared upwards out of nowhere, tracing its own blazing trail in the pitch-black that surrounded him, and continued swooping around the room, until a third bird, white-hot, appeared.  
  
This bird, rather than flying upwards and forming a spectacular pattern on the inky blackness, as the other two birds were doing now; slowly spread it's burning wings, carefully and deliberately sweeping them towards Neville's face. Pain seared through him; agonising, gut-wrenching pain, and he put a hand to his face.  
  
He pulled it back in shock, and studied it for a moment. This wasn't his hand, nor was this his face. The bird shrieked and swooped upward, joining in the spectacular display as if it had always been, the three flames never crossing, but making one delicate pattern in the sky, etched for a moment before disappearing forever into the inky blackness.  
  
The birds continued to spiral endlessly around, delicate yet powerful, beautiful yet horrible, creating an ancient pattern that has been forgotten for centuries, lost forever into the void that is the past. The flames blazed, fiery and strong, but seemed to be distancing. The birds faded, calling to each other in beautiful and frightening shrieks, until there was nothing but darkness.  
  
Just as the dark had crept outwards, light began to seep from that spot on the table, inching in tendrils towards him, swirling like mist. As the light spread, shapes appeared. Neville saw a face, leering, smirking satisfactorily, he felt cold, curved stone behind his back, heard the chants of many monotonous voices droning in the distance, and looked fearfully around him.  
  
It was outdoors, a temple of some sort, made of a sandy-coloured stone, reaching for the heavens. The sun was beating down; he felt it on his chest. But was this chest his? It was muscular, powerful, and his arms were full of strength. But he could feel his face without touching it…this was his body.  
  
The face drew closer to him, looked him in the eye, and then upwards at the sun. He spoke in a different language, but from what Neville could gather from his tone, this was a serious religious ceremony. That involved blood. And lots of it.  
  
The man turned back, and reached into his Mexican-style robes, drawing out a large, glass dagger. It sparkled, glinting blindingly in the sun for a moment before the man (who Neville supposed was a priest) brought it sweeping down to rest in his chest.  
  
Pain seared through him, strong and biting, worse than when the bird's wings had passed over him, worse than when he had broken his wrist. He saw spots in the air in front of him, he shook his head violently, struggling, and felt the blade slide down his chest…no, through his chest.  
  
A hand reached inside him, he felt it pushing aside his vital organs, before grabbing his heart and, with a wrench, pulling it from his body.  
  
Neville saw, and felt, no more.  
  
* * *  
  
Chapter Two, part two.  
  
A/N: No, Neville is not dead J but I scared you, didn't I? Well, I guess I probably didn't, but hey, you can imagine. Ooh, long bit! ;^)  
  
I'm not sure if I got Neville right in this next bit, so please review and tell me what I should do.  
  
Neville awoke to the sound of stomping feet and the rustling of sheets. He couldn't open his eyes, it was as if they were glued shut, but from the smell of the air he could tell he was in the hospital wing. The strangely biting feel of the cool, dry air, the indescribably clean smell; it was all too familiar.  
  
He felt cramped in his legs and stretched slightly to loosen them up a bit. Pain shot through him, and he wrenched his eyes open in shock, crying out suddenly. He tried to sit up but found that only the slightest movement to his torso would send spasms of pain up his spine and into his brain. He shuddered violently and flopped back onto the relatively hard mattress, wondering what was going on.  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked up quickly from the pile of sheets she was unfolding and placing on the beds and strode quickly over, looking extremely worried. She placed a cool, shaking hand on his forehead, looking sadly into his scared eyes.  
  
"Shh," she said softly, more caring than was usual for the school nurse. "I don't know what you've done to yourself this time, but it's serious. If you need to move, you'll call me. You could kill yourself otherwise, and no one wants that. Drink this."  
  
She handed him a small goblet of a fiery-white potion, and helped him to swallow it while lying down, an extremely difficult procedure. All the while she was giving him a tragic look, as if there was something she had to tell him but didn't have the heart to break it to him herself.  
  
"What is it?" Neville asked desperately, catching on to the look. "I'm not going to die, am I?"  
  
She gave him that tragic look again, he saw the pain in her eyes as she paused a moment before saying, "I really don't know."  
  
Neville's eyes went wide with shock and he let out a strangled sort of sob. His whole life flashed before him; breaking his wrist during his first ever flying lesson, locked out of the common room, clambering over the Quidditch stand seats to join in the scuffle between Ron and Draco, being scorned for weeks for letting Sirius Black get the password to the common room in third year…  
  
It was all too much. He broke down.  
  
* * *  
  
Days passed and Neville spent the whole time in his bed, thinking of what would be his final moment, his final words. He had an idea of what he wanted to be remembered for saying at the last; he just hoped he didn't die in his sleep, remembered always as the boy who looked into a crystal ball and sent himself to the hospital wing, dying doing what he did best…nothing.  
  
All day, and all night, he would lie there, refusing to eat, his condition steadily growing worse. Madam Pomfrey had taken to going misty-eyed whenever she came into the room and saw him there, having lost all will to live.  
  
The room had never been a cheerful place, but somehow Madam Pomfrey had done an exceptionally good job of keeping the place from becoming a morbid area of the castle before then. But as Neville sank deeper and deeper into his will to die, the place grew darker, and every student feared to enter upon the room.  
  
Every sick child would dig their heels in and fight to the bitter end that there was no need to head up to the hospital wing, but, while being sympathetic of their cause, the prefects had taken it upon themselves to watch the younger students' health and chase them up to the wing.  
  
But soon Professor Dumbledore decided that enough was enough. This child was only injuring himself more, and affecting everyone else at the same time. It was time to bring in Nan.  
  
* * *  
  
Neville watched as Madam Pomfrey bustled out of the room, Ginny Weasley following behind her, who was sniffling slightly from a runny nose and giving Neville a sympathetic, caring look. He looked away, out the window at the snow slowly drifting down, speckling the ice-blue sky with sparkling gems of ice.  
  
A freezing gust of wind carried a flurry of snow inside the hospital wing as a steely-grey owl swept in the window, feathers ruffling slightly and covered in snow. It swooped around the room once, dropping more snow, and rested on Neville's bed, next to his weak, thinning arm, offering the letter attached to its leg.  
  
Neville gritted his teeth and hastily untied the note, sparks of pain jolting up his spine with each slight movement. He finished with the knot and flopped back down on the bed, panting and twitching slightly in his arms.  
  
Madam Pomfrey came back out of the room, although Ginny did not, obviously wanting to stay until she stopped steaming at the ears. She glanced at Neville, who was sweaty and shaking, looked at the letter in his hand and bustled over, flapping her arms at the owl.  
  
"Shoo!" she growled at it, giving it an extra vicious flap of her arm. "Get out of here!"  
  
The owl did no such thing. She grabbed the letter from Neville's weak hand and gave him a stare, the kind of stare that looks into your eyes and tells you you've done something wrong, terribly wrong, and you should be punished.  
  
Neville tore his eyes away from hers, guilt riding through his veins, an icy torrent roaring along his body. He shouldn't have touched the letter. He'd done himself damage. A few less minutes to live…  
  
"You're having visitors this afternoon, Mr Longbottom. Here," she said, handing him the parchment. "You read it."  
  
He reached up and quickly grabbed it, sparking pain up his arm and through to his chest, then up towards his brain, joltingly unwelcome. He painfully unfolded the parchment, flinching with each tiny movement.  
  
Dear Mr Longbottom,  
  
It is with a sense of happiness I announce that, despite your condition, your guardian will be coming to visit you later in the day. I will be in just before then to have a talk (a private talk) and would very much appreciate you to be ready.  
  
There are some very important issues we need to discuss concerning your condition, and they are for your ears and your ears alone. I hope you realise that this will take some getting used to, but things are going to change. Drastically. Please try to bear with me on this.  
  
Your Headmaster,  
  
Prof. Dumbledore.  
  
"Oh no," he muttered, truly meaning it in a powerful way. "Not Nan."  
  
Madam Pomfrey looked at him in a quizzical manner and left, her brow furrowed slightly as she muttered to herself about private conversations with people who couldn't even move. Neville stroked the owl softly on the head, glad of its company, but soon the owl swept it's wings and swooped out of the window, just as a gust of wind blew in some more snow.  
  
The icy flakes of frozen water blew around the room, swirling in all too familiar patterns, the dazzlingly white snow replicating the many-coloured flames which represent past, present and future.  
  
Neville did not notice the repetition of his Divination encounter; he was fast asleep. A shallow sleep; too shallow for dreams, too shallow to be of any use to resting his body. But just deep enough to make him unaware of the warning of his pending future breezing around the room in ever-moving currents.  
  
* * *  
  
As Zetis swept through Professor Dumbledore's window, bringing more snow in with her, he glanced up from the letter she had brought him earlier that day. The steely-grey feathers of her wings brushed Professor Dumbledore's cheek as she came to rest on his shoulder.  
  
He absent-mindedly reached up a hand to pat her, concentrating hard on what he was to say to Neville. The whole thing was mess. A terrible mess, one that would take years to clean up completely. But there was a shortcut. It was dangerous, so risky he would never have considered it, but for months the stars and weather had been telling him to. The pin-points of light in the night-time sky telling a story of foreboding danger, warning of the only possible solution, each breath of wind or stutter of rain whispering a message in his ear.  
  
This Divination encounter was so rare, so uncommon, so often fatal, that Dumbledore was surprised to find the boy still alive. If Neville had made it so far without food and only small amounts of water, he could fully recover. But he didn't want to, and that was one major problem. It takes will to make it through this, so much power from within that it often leaves the survivors damaged on the inside. Spiritually damaged, ruined forever by the exertion of mixing past, present and future.  
  
But it had to be done. And it would, so that life could go on, and the shortcut taken.  
  
* * *  
  
Neville knew he was in for it the moment he opened his eyes. Instantly. There was no point in-between waking up and getting fluttery in the stomach, awfully fluttery, so bad he was on the verge of throwing up. But of course he couldn't because throwing up would mean moving about. It wasn't worth the pain.  
  
His Nan was coming. This was not a desirable situation to be in, considering the fact that his vicious grandparent would do anything to keep him alive in case his parents recovered. If she had to break both of his legs to save him, she would. It was a matter of pride, a matter of love. Not care, it was deeper than that. These things run in veins, powerfully strong even after being removed from one realm to another.  
  
So as he opened his eyes, flinching slightly from the bright sunlight spilling onto his face, Neville shivered violently and sat up, ignoring the warning signs of pain in his chest. He sighed deeply, shakily, and sat up even more, desperately trying not to let out sharp sounds of pain, so as not to alert Madam Pomfrey to the fact that he was disobeying her. He was coming to terms with the agony, he didn't know why, but somehow it had something to do with the dream he had just had.  
  
Three birds of flame, each a differing colour, had swept around a room that had been in complete and utter darkness. They had etched a pattern in his mind, a pattern that was dancing just out of reach of his brain; metaphorically waggling it's tongue at him. But although he couldn't remember the pattern, he could remember the feeling it had brought upon him. Fear, and sympathy. Raw, cold, biting. Two powerful emotions mixed together in a shockingly unforgiving memory.  
  
That pattern was important somehow; it was as if it could mean life or death for him. But he couldn't remember the exact details. A swirl here, a slight thickening of a line there, but that was all. No connection of the two.  
  
Shoving these thoughts to the back of his head, he thought about trying some magic after so long. But where was his wand?  
  
He frantically searched the hospital wing, eyes speedily scanning the perimeter of the room, and spotted it. It was laying on top of a pile of his things a few metres away. Three, maybe four steps. Three or four very slow, very painful steps away.  
  
But he wanted that wand now more than ever because of its tantalising distance. So close, so very close, and yet so very far. Resolutely, Neville swung his legs around and over the edge of the bed.  
  
Big mistake. As soon as he moved his stiff, neglected leg muscles, they spontaneously cramped. This was worse than not being able to move for pain, he was paralysed. Clenching his teeth in pain from the cramps, he viciously attempted to move.  
  
Nothing happened. It was as if the nerve-endings in his legs were so pre- occupied with sending pain up his spine that there was no room to react and tell his muscles to move. He reached down and angrily rubbed one leg, pushing here and there, attempting to gain anything but pain by moving.  
  
His leg was still clenched tight, but he slowly and painfully stretched it out, wincing the whole time. He began work on his other leg, and realised with a start that the other was starting to cramp up again. He kept it moving slowly until he was able to move his other leg.  
  
It was agony, he winced and cringed all through the process, but somehow the pain made it all the more worth it. As if this was an obstacle he had to overcome before he could do anything else; wether that be casting a spell with his wand, or going back to sleep. It was a compelling urge, one that he found he just couldn't resist.  
  
Neville took a deep breath and stood up. His legs immediately crumpled under him and he fell with a crash to the floor. A very heavy, very loud crash, one that brought Madam Pomfrey from the other room.  
  
She gasped and put a hand to her mouth when she saw Neville on the floor, trying to get up, whimpering slightly with pain. He looked up and saw tears in her eyes as she ran over to help him.  
  
"Oh you foolish, foolish boy!" she said through shallow, irregular breaths. "What do you think you're doing? You could have killed yourself!"  
  
Neville said nothing, and flopped back down on the bed, knowing that he couldn't do anything else that day. The urge to get his wand was gone now, as suddenly as it had come. Every muscle in his body was on fire, blazing with a thousand flames, searing with heat and pain.  
  
"Shh," Madam Pomfrey whispered, calming down a bit. "Don't you ever do that again, you hear?"  
  
She wiped a tear from her cheek, and used her other hand to softly stroke his cheek and test his temperature via his forehead. She looked alarmed and drew back her hand, looking at it in amazement.  
  
"How do you feel?" she asked urgently, a confused look on her face.  
  
"Hot," Neville muttered, closing his eyes from the heat. It was as if the sheets surrounding him were thick woolen blankets, as if the falling snow outside was a rain of fire. But, for some reason, he shivered violently.  
  
"Hot? But you're definitely less than thirty degrees!"  
  
"That's nice," he muttered absently, rolling over to one side and casting away the sheets. So hot, he thought. So very hot.  
  
* * *  
  
As quickly as the fever had come, it passed. It was less than half an hour before Neville, previously shivering violently and simultaneously complaining about the heat, was lying sore, tired, but calm and near normal, in-between the crisp, lemon-smelling sheets of his hospital-wing bed.  
  
As each minute had passed, Neville's body temperature had dropped another half a degree Celsius, eventually reaching about fourteen degrees. His whole body was like a drink from the fridge on a hot day, with the cold beads of sweat replicating the condensation on a cup.  
  
He had been shaking uncontrollably the whole time, but thwarted every attempt of Madam Pomfrey's to cover him with a blanket by a vicious swipe of his arm. He had mumbled the whole time, about fire, darkness, and a bird. He, at one time, had even magically opened a window in his subconscious. The window had opened with a bang, letting a flurry of snow inside, which swirled around the room before falling to the floor, drops of icy-cold water.  
  
Madam Pomfrey pondered this as she waited at the hospital wing door for Dumbledore. She had never encountered such a case, and hoped she never would again. It had drained her just to be around the boy, he had seemed to suck the energy out of her.  
  
But what could be causing this? It was as if he was living two lives at once, as if his past, present and future selves were passing through him, colliding violently. But she had never heard of such a thing, it was impossible. How could the three of his selves, which exist only to the present person, be colliding?  
  
These questions and many more raced around her head, and when she finally heard a knock on the doors, she took a deep, but somewhat not calming, breath and pulled them open to reveal a rather serious-looking Professor Dumbledore.  
  
"Professor," she greeted him, throwing the 'symptoms-I've-never-heard-of' look in his face.  
  
"Yes, Poppy, I do believe that we are in need of a conversation in private. May we?" He gestured towards the back room.  
  
"Of course," she muttered, leading the way. And as she looked back into the room, she saw a blood-red aura surrounding Neville's bed.  
  
Chapter Three: With the eyes of a crow  
  
Disclaimer: Well, as much as I hate to admit it; this story isn't mine. *pauses for shocked gasps of scandalised readers* Yep, it's true. JK Rowling owns it all! Thanks so much to her for creating the wonderful world of magic that so many of us have taken comfort and strength from.  
  
A/N: Another disclaimer has to go to my sister (yes, the one who disses all my stories horribly, which is why I don't show them to her for help anymore) for the 'Accio' insult. As much as I'd love to say it's mine, it ain't. Oh well.  
  
Oh yeah, about the story. Well, this chapter is actually one of my experiments. I get some music, a drink, a starting line, a finishing line and then I write. Something crucial to the story may show up in this chapter, yes, but if it's a bit ramble-y, I'm sorry.  
  
***  
  
Neville was so tired it was painful just to keep his eyes open. Each passing second of sight was as strength-draining as running a mile in ice- skates, and opening his eyes once they were shut was excruciatingly slow. Each blink would leave his eyes lethargic and blurry, and he couldn't even be bothered to close his sagging mouth.  
  
He just lay there, painfully breathing, listening with some difficulty to snatches of the conversation between Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore.  
  
"But that's impossible! How?" Madam Pomfrey's voice came from the room to his left.  
  
"It seems impossible, Poppy, but I assure you, it is happening."  
  
The voices dropped down a pitch, and Neville could hear no more than mutterings, unintelligible murmurs issuing out from somewhere beyond his sight, tickling his ear with what could be words, but smeared together in a constant stream.  
  
They were talking about him, he knew it. They knew something about him, something they didn't want him to know. But what? What was so secret that he, the object of attention in this issue, could not know?  
  
Did it have something to do with the crystal ball? With the calling birds of fire, or with this mysterious illness that had struck him down with such ferocity?  
  
Little did he know, it encompassed all of this and more.  
  
* * *  
  
"And so you see, my dear Poppy, that I am, in a way, responsible for what happens to this boy. More than I would be if he were a normal student. There's something lurking inside him; something distant, annoyingly just out of sight, that only he can find and conquer. His own not-so-little obstacle."  
  
She nodded. What else could she do? It wasn't as if she completely understood (far from it) but Professor Dumbledore had obviously said all he wanted to on the subject. It was too much to comprehend; she needed more time to soak it in.  
  
"And if it's alright with you, I would like to have a chat with young Mister Longbottom now."  
  
Professor Dumbledore left through the door to the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey wiped her shining eyes, rubbed her cheeks with the cold palms of her hands and stood, shakily moving across the room to make herself a warm cup of Magi-milo.  
  
Past, present and future.  
  
* * *  
  
Neville saw the door to the side room open, and caught a glimpse of Professor Dumbledore's silvery hair. Professor Dumbledore's blue eyes turned and looked into Neville's own pair, a look penetrating into him that was unreadable yet somehow meaningful.  
  
Dumbledore strode across the room, and Neville wriggled slightly so his body rested a bit higher on his pillows as a sign of respect. He gulped.  
  
"Neville."  
  
Neville took a deep breath to steady himself, closing his eyes and tasting the bitter air. He opened them again and cleared his head.  
  
"Yes?" he managed, after all that preparation. A simple word, not even a sentence. He inwardly kicked himself for his cowardice.  
  
"Neville," Dumbledore repeated, drawing up a chair and sitting on it. "I think you already know why I'm here, do you not?"  
  
"I dunno," Neville muttered, eyes downcast. He knew he shouldn't have been so stupid these past days. Of course he should have kept the best state of mind possible. Happy, optimistic, life giving.  
  
"Of course you do. I would like you to repeat to me what it was you saw before this sad predicament of health fell upon you."  
  
"I…" Neville began nervously, afraid of what Dumbledore would say, hoping for his sake that he yelled rather than got that look. "I honestly can't remember."  
  
"Yes," Dumbledore sighed, leaning back in his chair, a somewhat adolescent movement for someone of his age. "Of course. It was too much to expect, I suppose."  
  
He then directed his speech towards Neville again.  
  
"Have you had any other experiences since then? Any dreams, feelings, emotions?"  
  
Yes, Neville thought. The birds. But is that what he means? I've had stranger dreams than that, but…  
  
"Yes," he finally said. "A dream, but I'm not quite sure what it was or meant. It's probably nothing."  
  
Professor Dumbledore waved a hand at him in a 'please continue' kind of way.  
  
"No, no. Please tell me. Anything you say could be the key."  
  
"Key to what?" Neville asked, looking suspiciously at him. Yet another exclusion, this time from something important.  
  
"Never mind. Now about that dream…?"  
  
Neville gritted his teeth a moment before he opened his mouth again, cautiously, and spoke.  
  
"Well, it was dark, pitch black. I couldn't see a thing, and then these birds appeared out of nowhere."  
  
Dumbledore interrupted him. "Birds? How many? What colour? What did they look like?"  
  
"There were three of them; one red, one blue, one white. I can't describe the colours any more than that. I suppose 'fiery' could work, but it's hard to describe. They were sort of like… a phoenix… made of flames. They just flew around the room; making this pattern."  
  
Dumbledore interrupted Neville yet again. "Can you remember the pattern?"  
  
Neville sighed, wishing he could get on with his story without the constant stopping and starting.  
  
"No."  
  
"Can you remember anything at all about the pattern? Anything. Any feelings you got, even."  
  
Neville paused, trying to remember what it was exactly that he had felt.  
  
"I'm not sure, but it was a really strong feeling. Kind of like fear…and sympathy. Only mixed together into one feeling. I don't know, it's hard to explain."  
  
Dumbledore looked thoughtful. He paused, and then spoke again.  
  
"Very well, that's all I need to know. Now I suppose it is my turn to tell you something."  
  
"This illness you have, it is not something of physical means. It is inflicted upon your body by your mind; you must know the body cannot exist seperately from the mind. It's not really in your head; it's more that it's originating from there. It's a state of mind. Believe you will get better, and you will."  
  
Neville didn't say anything. Thoughts, impossible to comprehend at the speed they were rocketing around, were racing around his head. Believe, the mind brings it upon you, mind and body cannot exist without the other.  
  
"Neville?"  
  
He snapped out of his trance, his brow still furrowed with thought. That may explain how he could get himself better, but was that really what he needed to know? Hadn't he known it all along, deep inside him, that if he believed he could heal he would? So that wasn't quite the question. But if so, then what was?  
  
He needn't ask. Professor Dumbledore explained without any prompting.  
  
"No one quite knows exactly what it was that happened to get you like this. It has something to do with past selves and the future colliding within the present. When the three meet, no matter what it is you are seeing or doing, it will affect you. I have reason to believe that you saw something traumatic, something physically damaging, in that crystal ball. How else could you have gotten that emotional scar down your chest, or that pain all over? It's as if you've risen from the dead, Neville.  
  
"It's understandable to feel like that in your condition, but not acceptable. You're killing yourself, Neville."  
  
* * *  
  
Neville's grandmother waited patiently outside the hospital wing to see her grandson. She looked down at her watch and saw Neville's hand pointing at 'Confused', sighed and busied herself with adjusting her hat.  
  
She jerked her hand wildly as a stab of burning pain coursed through her, and knocked the midnight-black hat to the ground. It tumbled, spiralling downwards before resting with a flump on the stone floor, askew.  
  
Neville's gran furrowed her brow in confusion and flipped her hand over to see what had caused the fiery pain. A pattern; as if burnt there, stared back at her. She gasped softly and traced it with her finger. She felt no pain, not even a pin-prick of discomfort as her fingertip covered the reddened marks, moving ceaselessly over the crevices of her aged skin.  
  
The pattern faded quickly; disappearing as if snatched away by an unseen hand, leaving behind her normal skin. But it itched terribly, and she scratched it with her fingernails before bending down to pick up her hat from the cold floor.  
  
She shivered as her hand touch the stone and drew back quickly, snagging her finger on a rough piece. A drop of blood fell, sparkling in all its horrible beauty, and splashed onto the floor to remain until a house-elf came by.  
  
Chapter Three: With the eyes of a crow, Part Two  
  
A/N: This is the third time I've had to write this part because of numerous disasters (aka computer crashing, losing the floppy disk…) and I just got so fed up I didn't put all my worth into it.  
  
Neville lay in his bed as he had done many times before and thought about his conversation with his Nan. It wasn't as if it had gone badly, more that it hadn't gone well. Although his Nan had not lost her temper; she had not yelled, scoffed or sneered, her nostrils had not flared and the fierce annoyance had not shown in her eyes; she had not been her normal self. She had spent more than half the time gently scratching her hand, and while she was doing so, a faraway look had passed over her face and she had seemed distant.  
  
"Nan? Is something wrong?" he asked, noting her constant scratching and the small mark of blood on his Nan's hand. "Did you hurt yourself?"  
  
She jerked slightly and stopped scratching her hand. "Oh, no, of course not," she said, quickly folding her hands in her lap and smiling slightly at Neville. "You were saying?"  
  
"Nothing of importance. Are you sure you're okay?" His face creased slightly in concern, and he watched her carefully.  
  
"I'm fine. Go on…" she urged, nodding in an encouraging manner to her grandson.  
  
"It was just about Divination, and why the room had to be reorganised because of Ron and…" he began his story again, but before he had finished the first sentence she was gone again, her eyes focusing on some distant spot out of sight, her fingernails tracing a pattern on her palm.  
  
Neville shrugged slightly and turned painfully over. Some things weren't meant to be contemplated in the middle of the night, this included. He reached a hand over to flip off his bedside light, and as he did so, a flash of another place seared his mind.  
  
Pouring rain. Mud. A familiar body beside him, flowing dark hair and a body…a falling body that left a trail of blood behind it as it raced towards the ground at great speed.  
  
He snapped back into reality with a harsh, sharp breath, his hand jerking slightly and switching off the light. The room suddenly became dark and hostile, unwanting of his being there and trying to force him out. Out of this reality and into…another dimension.  
  
He lay back down again and tried to will himself to sleep. He did not know when he eventually succeeded, but he could remember seeing the golden rays of light creeping over the horizon and sweeping across the grounds, hitting the castle wall in an explosion of dazzling colour.  
  
* * *  
  
When Neville opened his eyes the next day, he felt a strange sensation that he had not felt for a long time. It was familiar, yet he couldn't place it because he had not felt it for so long. It was a while before he finally did realise it, and when he did, it brought a smile to his face. He was hungry.  
  
Madam Pomfrey entered from the back room, a pile of sheets in her arms, humming softly to herself. She smiled awkwardly when she saw that Neville was awake, and said in a warm voice, "How are you feeling today? Any better?"  
  
"I'm hungry."  
  
Madam Pomfrey dropped the sheets in surprise, and tears came to her eyes. Tears of, apparently, hope.  
  
"Not to bother you or anything," he hurriedly added, misreading her expression. " I don't need to eat right now, it's just I haven't for quite a while, and…"  
  
He found himself unable to finish the sentence as he was smothered in a hug, Madam Pomfrey's sniffling head above his own, before she broke away, her cheeks shining with tears. She blushed slightly and wiped her cheeks and eyes, all the while smiling at Neville.  
  
"I'll go get you something to eat then, shall I?" she asked, not bothering to wait for an answer before disappearing out of the hospital wing door. Neville frowned slightly after her, thinking.  
  
There was no reason for her to head down to the kitchens. A simple apple would do, he didn't think he was that hungry, and she had a whole bowl of apples in her back room. Although he would appreciate a hot meal much more, he didn't think she should have gone to the trouble. He was only Neville, after all.  
  
He went through his usual morning stretches (nothing extreme, mainly just moving his torso around a bit to disperse the stiffness) and grinned as he realised that the pain was definitely less extreme. He'd known he could get better for only a day, and already he was happier, hungry and in less pain. The power of the mind truly was at work.  
  
As Neville was more focused, he turned his attention to things to occupy himself with. He gazed around the room and spotted his wand, exactly where it had been earlier; 3-4 metres away. Although he was feeling better, he was not quite yet at the stage where he could simply stand up and take his wand. This required some strategy.  
  
He knew what to expect when he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, yet the sudden spasm of pain still hit him like a charging bull in the chest. His legs cramped up once more, and he went through the exact same process of rubbing and stretching before he dared to stand.  
  
Grabbing a table for support, he stood. His legs nearly did buckle under him, and he teetered there for a moment, knuckles white from holding the table, on the verge of toppling over. But he regained his balance once more and slowly began to take the few steps to grab his wand.  
  
It was not far to go, yet every step felt like eternity. Every muscle in his body despised the hated movements he was forcing them to make, and they burned with ferocity, screaming in protest.  
  
At last, at long last, he reached his wand. But before he could stretch out his hand to pick it up, it flew, as if subconsciously moved, into his wand hand. Neville shrugged slightly and started making his way back, moving slowly and jerkily, his face contorted in pain, before flopping onto his bed, panting heavily.  
  
He had done it. He had tried to get his wand once more…and this time he had succeeded. He grinned proudly for a while, revelling in the fact that he had finally done something right, before frowning again and glancing at the hospital wing door.  
  
Madam Pomfrey should have been back by now. It wasn't as if she was getting him a three-course meal, was it? Neville's stomach growled loudly and he thought about the apples in the back room. Surely she wouldn't mind if he just summoned one to eat while he waited, would she?  
  
He picked up his wand and gave it a few practising swishes to get used to the movement once again. It was as if he had to train his body all over, as if it had forgotten all the moves.  
  
"Accio apple!"  
  
"Longbottom, if you'd ever learnt the 'Accio' spell you'd have summoned your brain by now."  
  
The apple fell to the floor with a thud and rolled away out of Neville's ever-possible reach. He turned, scowling, to see just whom he had suspected standing in the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.  
  
As Neville looked at Malfoy's cold, sneering face, the expression on it changed to one of mild shock. Malfoy did a double-take on Neville's face, lingering on his eyes for a moment.  
  
"You've got crow's eyes, Longbottom. I'd be careful if I were you, you know what that means."  
  
Chapter four: Life Goes On  
  
   
  
Disclaimer: I have never, nor will ever, compare to JK Rowling. She created the universe of HP and everything in it, and I am not making any profit at all from this story.  
  
   
  
A/N: let's see how many times I have to re-write this chapter, shall we?  
  
   
  
Okay…no re-writing…but it's pretty short.  
  
   
  
   
  
"What do you mean, 'crow's eyes'?"  
  
   
  
Neville looked right at Malfoy's own eyes, to discover he was smirking coldly. Malfoy took a few steps closer to Neville so he didn't have to speak as loudly, and looked down at him.  
  
   
  
"You don't know about crow's eyes, squib? I'm surprised, to say the least. It means you're going to die painfully, slowly, and for reasons that are entirely your own fault. And you," he smirked even more broadly, "have got them."  
  
   
  
"Don't be silly," Madam Pomfrey interrupted, bustling in the door with an extremely large covered tray in her arms. "That's just a theory passed amongst Dark wizards to explain the darkening of one's eyes. It has nothing to do with death. Dark wizards don't know what they're talking about."  
  
   
  
She placed the tray on the table beside Neville's bed and wiped the palms of her hands on her dress. Malfoy scowled bitterly and turned away, heading out the door with Crabbe and Goyle.  
  
   
  
Neville started in on his meal of soup, roast lamb, ice cream and fruit. He'd just decided that he did, indeed, have room for the fruit, which he'd saved for last, when he felt as though he were being watched, and snapped his head upwards to see Malfoy standing in the doorway once more  
  
   
  
"We know more than you think, Longbottom."  
  
   
  
Neville watched the pale figure carefully, but not once did Malfoy's lips move. Malfoy nodded coldly at Neville and disappeared again.  
  
   
  
"Much more."  
  
   
  
* * *  
  
   
  
"Ron, just drop it, will you? So Hermione beat you. Deal."  
  
   
  
Ron shut his mouth and blushed. For the first time since he was three and had given his dad a run for his money, Ron had been beaten at chess. Although he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Harry the real reason he lost, he wasn't going to lie.  
  
   
  
"I s'pose," he said gruffly and stood up, his ears a brilliant shade of magenta. "I think I'll…I'll go get something to eat."  
  
   
  
He finished and awkwardly walked off up the boys' dormitory stairs, in the exact opposite direction to the food.  
  
   
  
"What's gotten into him all of a sudden?" Ginny asked, looking up from the group of fourth year girls to frown in Harry and Hermione's direction. She spotted the guilty grin on Hermione's face and said, "You didn't!"  
  
   
  
"Um…yes?"  
  
   
  
"No way!" Ginny exclaimed, giggling, and elbowed a few of her friends, who stopped having an argument about Professor McGonnagal's Animagus form to look at Hermione. Hermione bit her lip again. The girls began to grin, and Harry looked from Hermione to Ginny and back again.  
  
   
  
"What have you done to the poor guy now?"  
  
   
  
"Just an old trick Mum used on Dad when they were in school," Ginny informed Harry, shrugging slightly. "If you want to break someone's concentration you rub your foot against theirs."  
  
   
  
She winked at Hermione, who blushed even deeper red, and turned back to her friends, animatedly explaining something about the way the markings around the cat's eyes were exactly the same as Professor McGonnagall's glasses.  
  
   
  
Harry set the chess figures up once more, claiming Ron's pieces as his own for this round ("You da man!" "No, you da man!"…Fred and George had apparently borrowed the chess set a few weeks back. They hadn't been the same since) who, despite having lost a game, were quite pleased with being able to take out the queen for once. It wasn't as if they'd never lost before; Harry had borrowed Ron's chess set countless times.  
  
   
  
"One more game?" He motioned to the slightly moving chessboard and raised an eyebrow. "What, aren't I good enough? Gotten all big-headed because we beat Ron, have we?"  
  
   
  
"Oh be quiet you," she hushed, placing her hands on her hips. "Now seriously, I want to ask you something."  
  
   
  
"So no chess?"  
  
   
  
Hermione considered for a moment. "Okay, chess," she agreed after a slight pause and sat down opposite Harry.  
  
   
  
"Pawn to B3," Harry began the game, and then looked up at Hermione. "You were saying?"  
  
   
  
She ordered a random pawn forward and stated, "Madam Pomfrey said Neville's getting better."  
  
   
  
"That's a relief…pawn to C3," Harry agreed, nodding her onwards.  
  
   
  
"Well…you were with him when it happened, and I was wondering…what exactly happened? Was it like a seizure or something, or did he just collapse?" She ignored the chess game, expectantly awaiting Harry's answer.  
  
   
  
"It was like…something was happening to him, actually. I mean, he didn't say anything or move a lot, but you could see he could feel something on his skin, then he sort of paused for a moment, gasped loudly and fell to the floor."  
  
   
  
Hermione leaned back in her chair, looking truly sorry for Neville. "Poor Neville," she whispered, putting a hand gently to her mouth.  
  
   
  
Harry nodded slightly, shrugged and said in a lighter tone, "So when does Madam Pomfrey say he'll be out?"  
  
   
  
"About a week or so," Hermione answered, realising she still hadn't made her chess move. She glanced at the awaiting chessboard, then at Harry, and stood up.  
  
   
  
"I'm sorry. I just…can't concentrate. Do you mind if I go to bed?"  
  
   
  
"Nah, go ahead," Harry shrugged it off, picking up Ron's king and placing it in the box. "It'll be good to have Neville back…Snape's really missing him."  
  
   
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, I bet."  
  
   
  
* * *  
  
   
  
Neville stood in the doorway to the hospital wing, his freshly laundered school robes adorning him and wand in hand. His light brown hair, which usually was in a slight state of disarray, was combed and fell loosely over his head. He stretched his arms once more and realised just how big his robes were on him…so big it was noticeably uncomfortable and rather odd- looking.  
  
   
  
He was going back to classes today…he would go back to his dormitory, have the first period to rest a bit and then…Potions. Neville's face fell as he realised what he was going back to…what he would have to endure. It wasn't the humility as much, but more the fact that the humility was his and his alone…he was the only person Snape constantly humiliated. Sure, Snape picked on Harry and Ron, but that wasn't humiliation, that was discrimination against houses and stereotypes. There was something different about the way Snape treated him.  
  
   
  
He sighed darkly and turned around to open the door. A house-elf greeted him with a, "Knobby is here to take you to your room, Sir. Shall I take something for Sir? Does Sir want something to eat, perhaps?"  
  
   
  
"No, Knobby, I'm fine," Neville assured the house-elf in a weary yet pleased voice. "I don't need anything for now…"  
  
* * *  
  
To be continued… 


End file.
